Fighting the Good Guy
by FlossSwallower
Summary: Gunding was a simple miner, a Nord who had followed his family in search of gold, when his loved ones were all killed, leaving him all alone. Gunding was no knight or mage, he didn't know how to fight, but the one who attacked his family had killed at least one of everything. The one who had killed his family was the Dragonborn.
1. Chapter 1

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The pickaxe continued to make that cracking noise against the wall as it swung back, then forth, then back, then forth, in tiny, small movements, seemingly stuck in an infinite cycle of picking away at the rock before it. I continued to stare on, caught in this loop, and I didn't mind, I knew it was my job, my life, I lived here in a mine, I was a moleman, away from civilization. I would have been sweating heavily if it weren't for the hundreds of pounds of ice surrounding us and the freezing winds coming in through the entrance. Every now and then, sometimes, when I had a free moment, I'd go outside and look out at the cliffs and rocks and hills of ice and hard rock surrounding us, frozen water laying for off in the distance. We still didn't wear much clothing, and at the moment I simply wore my tunic, the cold air easily passing through it, my own body heat, plus the heat I was given from hard work, fighting against the cold winds of Mother Nature as I continued to pick and pick away in hopes of finding iron, in hopes of becoming rich, in hopes that what Thorgar had told us was true.

I continued to stare and stare and stare on at the rock before me, my eyes small spheres surrounded by black grime. Grime. In a mine, the grime and dirt would cover you, even if you were in an ice mine, the grime would settle in the crevices of your skin, in the folds of your body, in the hollow of your cheeks, in your hair, behind your ears, on your clothes. You never exactly knew what time it was in the mine, and even outside it was hard to tell when there was no sun, only ice. Thorgar had said that somewhat nearby, far, but still somewhat nearby, were mages, the kind from the stories and tales, mages that could teach you their ways if you had the coin. I remembered when I was a boy, when I still saw sunlight daily, hearing about knights and chivalry, wondrous tales of swords clashing and sparks flying. We didn't see much chivalry of violence down here in the mine, except perhaps a harker outside or something. Once we even had to fight a sabercat, but that was our fiercest opponent we'd ever had. Every now and then we'd go hunting, but our prey was usually easy to kill, and we didn't run into too many harkers or sabercats, so our life was a peaceful, quiet one.

I set down the pickaxe, sweat finally starting to trickle down my bumpy, hard skin. I wiped my palm across my forehead, and when it came back, it was covered in black dirt. I sighed and leaned against the handle of the wooden platform I stood on, stepping over my bedroll. My name was Gunding. I'd never had a wife or children, although I was already a grown man, a bit out of my days of youth, my hair scraggly and messy, covered in dirt, but I managed to keep my jaw bare, we had razors and knives to shave. I rubbed said bare jaw and cheeks as I looked around. Thorgar continued to work, and I could hear Badnir cracking away at the ice deeper in the mine. Thorgar and Badnir were somewhat well-armed, plus an Imperial guard patrolled around the mine. He was a silent fellow and I didn't speak to him much, as I was also a silent fellow, but him and Badnir seemed to get along. At the end of the day, shivering from the freezing cold of the outside world, he would share a few words with Badnir, laugh, then strip of his weapons and go to bed, keeping his armor on to stay warm, as we all tried to do. He carried an Imperial sword, while Thorgar carried a battle-axe, and so did Badnir. I merely carried a dagger with me, as did Angvid, who I have yet to mention.

Angvid was probably my closest friend, a man a bit older than me, yet in the mine the wrinkles show on us all and we all look ancient. Angvid was always the skeptic of our small group, the one who doubted Thorgar's plan to get rich, although Angvid was never one to abandon us, he was loyal, he stayed in the mine and picked away at the rocks no matter how much he thought we'd never find iron that could make us rich. He talked of this now and then when the day was over and he and I sat down at a table, drinking cheap mead out of our metal cups, passing the flagon back and forth. I was always a bit silent on the issue, and I think Angvid was glad of this, glad he had someone who he could talk to who could just listen to his problems rather than complain of his own, or of his own views. I never really talked of my views on Thorgar's plan because I was always neutral, I didn't know whether we'd find iron or not, but this was our life, living here in the mines, and I didn't mind, I'd always follow my friends wherever they decided to go, no matter what their cause. I say friends because we are not blood, but we are definitely family.

My eyes turn to the side to look at the entrance, hearing boots coming down on the ice. It doesn't feel like it's quite time for the guard to come in yet, and Badnir and Angvid are in here, but as I said I'm not the philosophical kind of man, so I don't wonder too strongly about who it could be.

The figure comes into view, a man of medium-height and strong, strong build. He's a Nord, and the dirt has settled as strongly as him as it has on us, black circles of grime surrounding his eyes. Strong laugh lines surround his mouth, but they look old, simply marks of happier times that can't be washed away. The odd thing about the man, though, is that he is most definitely rich, as I can tell by his armor, the likes of which I have never seen. His torso armor is black, intricate designs covering it, sculpted beautifully, and on his back are deep, red, glowing sockets. He wears no helmet, his hair a dull, light brown, nothing beautiful, but he looks like a simple man. Could he be a thief, who stole the armor from someone? On his back, strapped to his armor, is a gigantic sword, glistening in the reflecting lights of the cave, a greatsword, and a magnificent one at that, one that looks to be crafted by the gods.

"Hello, there, traveler," I call.

The man looks up at me, his face dull and blank, as ours are.

To the side, I see Thorgar turning around, his face brightening as he spots a visitor. I can tell he must be thinking that our mine has finally become famous, that people are finally starting to come to see The Whistling Mine and all its wonders.

"Ho, there!" he calls out, putting on a cheerful face, never failing to be the advertiser of our home, changing from the sullen, yet hopeful, leader of our small group, to the jolly jester, "Where do you come from?"

"Nowhere. What do you have for sale?" the man asks, looking directly at Thorgar.

"Uh, well, I'm afraid we don't sell anything, sir, but you most definitely may mine here, as long as you pay for it! So I suppose we sell iron!" Thorgar says.

The man nods, and looks up at me again. He stares at me for a moment, then looks back at Thorgar and says, "Thank you."

Thorgar nods happily and says, "Anytime!"

I watch as Thorgar turns around, ready to get back to work, satisfied that he has attracted a customer. The man in the wondrous armor lifts his hand up to his own shoulder, clasping the handle of his greatsword.

"Hey!" I shout.

Thorgar starts to turn around, but the man's greatsword is already out. Thorgar's eyes widen, and he reaches for his own battleaxe, but the greatsword begins to swing towards him.

"NO!"

The greatsword slices into Thorgar's neck, blood spurting out immediately, and it continues, not even sawing into it, just slicing through it like knife through a stick of butter. Thorgar's eyes go blank as the greatsword reaches the middle of his throat, blood spraying onto the face of the attacker, and then the greatsword passes through.

Everything is silent for a moment. The man is silent, Thorgar is silent, silent forever, and I am silent, my body frozen, my eyes wide, staring at Thorgar. He stays on his feet for a moment, and you can see the red line through his throat, blood seeping out, his mouth open, his eyes permanently staring ahead, and then his head starts to move backwards, and the line opens, his throat a tree stump, blood spurting out, lines and lines of twisting meat inside of the stump of a neck, and then Thorgar's head falls off, the sound of it thumping against the ice floor seemingly the loudest sound you'd ever hear, his body soon following procedure, slumping down and hitting the ground.

"NO!" I scream, breaking the silence.

The man in the armor looks over at me, his face still dull and blank, his greatsword coated in bright red blood.

I vault over the barrier of the platform, landing on the ice floor, blinded by sadness and rage, the tears already pouring out of my eyes. I'm stupid for trying to take him on with my dagger, but I don't think about that, all I think about is killing the man who killed Thorgar.

"NO!" I scream again, a sob breaking through, as I pull out my dagger, clenching it tightly, and wipe away the tears with the sleeve of my other arm.

The man remains silent, unmoving. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Badnir entering the scene, his mouth falling open as he see's Thorgar, then me.

"Gunding, no, don't!" he shouts.

I charge anyway, my fist glued around the handle of my dagger.

The man leans back, opening his mouth, then throws the upper part of his body, forward, shouting foreign words loudly, so loudly, louder than a person should be able to speak.

Something massive hits me, like a blizzard, punching me straight in the stomach, the wind knocked out of me and far, far away, the punch throwing me into the air, at least three feet, and much more back. I feel the back of my body connect with the wooden structure, pain flaring through me. I close my eyes as the punch stops when I hit the ground, and I hear cracking all around me, wood cracking. I open my eyes for a moment, just to see darkness, light somewhere below, and then all the wood collapses on me, covering me. The pain from the punch and the fall is unbearable, and my mind tries to pull me into unconsciousness, its grip strong, but I still remain somewhat awake.

"You bastard!" I hear someone shout. Badnir.

The clashing of swords follow, but only for a moment. Next, I hear Badnir grunt, and then the familiar slice that I heard when the sword connected with Thorgar's throat. I hear Badnir cry out, the cry turning into a moan, then a sickening sound that I can tell is the sword being pulled out of Badnir's still-alive body, then one more slice, and I know Badnir is gone.

I hear the sickening sound again, and then the same cry that Badnir made, except this time coming from the man. Silence, for a moment, then the sound of a weapon being pulled out of flesh, then a slice. I hope so strongly that the man is the one who the final slice went into, but I know it's the Imperial guard, and that the guard must have snuck up on him, but the man was too strong to be downed by one stab.

More silence, then footsteps, which trail off into the outside world, then silence, and I know that now I'm all alone. Completely alone.

I let the darkness take me.


	2. Chapter 2

The first of my senses that kicks into motion is my smell. I smell wood, everywhere, all around me, surrounding me, covering me. The next sense is my hearing. I hear a few cracks, then pieces of wood stumbling down to the ground, but mostly just silence, and the sound of the strong wind coming in through the entrance of the cave. Next is my sight, as I open my eyes. Before me, I can only see darkness, with occasional crooked, cracked slits of light peering through. You could see the dust lingering in the air, and in the rays of light I could see that the darkness was actually just more wood, broken, large pieces of wood, everywhere. The last feeling to come to me is touch, and I can feel pain all over me, mostly in my back and in my head, though. I feel something trickling down my forehead, something thick and moist that I know isn't just sweat, and the pain in my head seems to come from everywhere, as if hundreds of small people are fighting all over the land of my skull, not just concentrating on one place.

I break the silence with a groan, letting out a heavy breath, wincing at the pain on the inside and outside of my body. I shift, the wood shifting with me, the wood falling or rising, different pieces moving, or slipping off the pile. I start to move my arms, shoving off the massive pieces of wood surrounding me. My hand finally comes to the surface, my palm rubbing against the tough, rough, splintery wood. From there it's only a few seconds till I push the wood pile off and stand up, a wave of cold hitting me. As I look around, though, I regret ever waking up. The blood on the ground is dried, now, but definitely there, and Thorgar's body lies on the ground, decapitated, his head staring blankly ahead, on its side, its tongue hanging out, his eyes blank. Opposite him, just a few feet closer to the entrance, is the Imperial guard, a large hole in his belly, also staring blankly ahead. Next to Thorgar, a few feet away, is who I know is Badnir, lying face-down in the snow, two holes in his stomach. Dried blood covers the area around each of the bodies, and I just wish that I could join them in Sovngarde, wish that I could dine in the great hall alongside them and all the Nordic heroes. But no, I was left alive, and I was left to roam Skyrim alone, my friends killed, their blood shed for no reason whatsoever. I choke for a moment, holding back a sob, but I know that there's no point falling down and weeping amongst their blood now. There's nothing left here. The Whistling Mine was started by a group of friends who were more than friends, who were family but not blood, and became home to them, a promised land that never fulfilled its promise, and now whoever came to this mine would only find traces of dried blood and empty space. I walk over to Thorgar, my body aching terribly, and I kneel down. I'm completely alone now. The fact becomes even more so apparent when I hear my knee hitting the ice, no sound to accompany it. I slip my hands under Thorgar's body, and grunt as I hoist him up, standing up, holding the massive man in my arms, my body on fire under his weight, but I know to leave him here would be a bastardly thing to do. I step over the Imperial guard, my footsteps echoing in the mine as I make my way through the entrance, the cold wind hitting me harder as I step outside into the snow, my boots crunching against the white powder. I freeze in my place as I see Angvid lying in the snow, staring blankly at the deep, purple night sky, a giant hole in his chest. For a moment, I can't move, I can't think, I can merely look at my closest friend lying unmoving in the snow, never to move again, the snow around him flaky and red with his dried blood. The talks we had at the end of the day, our hunts together, him fixing food for the rest of us, all of these images flash before my eyes, and the sob is harder to choke back then ever. But I know he lies in Sovngarde, now, dining in the wondrous great Hall of Valor. My footsteps now are even heavier than they were, heavier than I ever imagined they could be, as I carry Thorgar through the snow. I walk, and I walk, and I walk, ignoring the freezing cold, until I reach the waters. At the waters had always lain a boat, an old, wooden boat, left behind by some traveler and never picked up again. We'd never had to use it, because we lived in the mine, but now was the time for it to come to us. I grunt as I drop Thorgar in the boat, free of his weight, then begin the trek backwards. It's even harder to come back and see them again, but I do it more than once, as I first pick up Badnir, then the Imperial guard, and drop them both in the boat. All that is left now are dried blood stains, and me and Angvid, and one torch in the mine that we would always keep in case we needed it. The silence is stronger than ever as I pick up Angvid, except now I carry him into the mine as set him down against the wall. I don't say a word, I hold back the sob, and I walk to the other side of the room, to the barrel of mead we had been saving for some rainy day. The rainy day had never come. Attached to the barrel was a spout, a handle attached, to pour out the mead. I pick up two cups, filling one, and return to Angvid, setting the cup down on his thigh, resting there, upright, clasping his cold, hard hands around it. I walk over to the barrel and heft it up, bringing it over to where Angvid sits, setting it down on the ground, and I sit a bit next to him, a corner separating us, so I can still look at him. I fill my cup full of mead and I down it in a second. My weary, tired eyes look over at his blank ones. I want to say something, to say some final goodbye that I never got to say properly, but my throat is just so amazingly tight that any single word that escapes would just sent me into terrible, wracking sobs. I drink my cup of mead, my throat tight, unable to taste anything but sadness. I clink our cups together, the sound loud in the empty, silent mine, then fill mine again.

"I-" I force the word out, scratching my throat out, the word a small, tired squeak, "I know you're-you're drinking mead in Sovngarde, brother, the b- the best mead, much better than this shit we have here," I continue, chuckling at the last part.

I look at him again.

"I never said goodbye to you guys. Never got to have a final feast, some final send-off, nothing. Now I'm alone," I say, and I go silent from the last part. I snap out of it a bit, and continue, "But we aren't the only people in Skyrim. I'm going to find the bastard who paid for your ticket to Sovngarde and I'm going to rip off his limbs and spread his blood across the walls of his house, brother. I'm going to send him down to whatever eternal torment his beliefs will send him to, but trust me, no matter what god he follows, whatever god the bastard worships, he'll go to hell, but I'll make him suffer and bleed and scream like a pig before I send him down there, brother."

I drink my mead, emptying the cup again, and fill it up.

"I'm going to join you in Sovngarde, brother, I'm going to be killed in battle. My blood will sink into the earth, a spear or a sword through my belly, and soon, but not before I rip off the head of the man who sent you to Sovngarde. I only hope you have time to hear me up there in the Hall of Valor, hope you still have time for the little people like us," I say, chuckling sadly again at the end. Every part of me feels so heavy.

"And if somehow, if somehow that bastard makes it up to Sovngarde, I'll follow him right up there, clinging to his bloodied, bruised soul, and I'll make his afterlife an eternal torture," I say. I look at Angvid again, the tears welling up in my eyes, and I say, "I promise you that."

Silence spreads like a wave through the cave as a tear breaks out of my eye, slipping through the dirt and grime surrounding it, and I wipe it away, putting down my cup of mead and setting down Angvid's, standing up then kneeling down and picking him up. His body was never as muscular or as large as Badnir or Thorgar, but somehow his weight is the heaviest, and I know it's just my soul that's heavy. I walk over to the side of the cave and pick up the torch, setting down Angvid by the pile of sticks where the fire used to be and rubbing a stick against the torch until finally it lights. Then I pick up Angvid again and I walk out of the mine, and to the waters again, setting him down in the boat. I put the torch against the boat, spreading the fire from the torch to the wood of the boat, the grime and dirt of my face gleaming against the fire, sweat finally starting to trickle down my face. It's not a perfect send-off, a warrior should be put in a wonderful, beautiful ship, not a rackety boat, and he should be sent to see in an amazing blaze with his lover and his dog, not his mead-buddies, and he should be sent with all his gold and jewelry and riches, but we never had any of those, except one stick of iron each. Angvid, Badnir, and Thorgar each have theirs, and I set mine down on Badnir's chest. The last remnant of The Whistling Mine. The fire spreads further on the boat, starting to catch on their bodies, and I step behind the boat, lifting my leg up and kicking it off, the boat splashing into the water and moving forward. I kick it again to get it moving steadily, and it does, then I merely stand there, once again ignoring the cold, watching with my tired, weary eyes as the fire becomes giant, smoke lifting up in the sky. It's not perfect, but I know Thorgar and Badnir would love me for giving them such a send-off, and Angvid would be happy to be on his way to Sovngarde, with his friends.

The fire continues off into the night, slipping across the dark, beautiful night waters, gently, the fires thrumming, strong against the wind. There is nothing left of The Whistling Mine but blood stains and ice, now. There are no men, there is no life, there are merely marks of its end. I am no remnant of The Whistling Mine because I'm already dead, I'm merely a ghost with flesh and a want for blood of a certain man.


	3. Chapter 3

I shiver, rubbing my arms crossed across my chest. I still only wear my tunic and pants and boots, and the tips of my fingers start to grow numb as I travel and travel through the frozen lands, the sound of my boots crunching in the snow forever filling my ears. It was a few days ago that I sent my friends out to sea, that they were sent to Sovngarde, and when I had sent them off, I merely turned around and started walking. I carried a pickaxe at my side, but it was no true weapon to fight with if I ran into anything, and multiple times I thought of dropping it due to its weight, but I knew it was best to at least have something to defend myself with in case I was confronted by a saber cat or harker. Living in the mine, we never really had a map or paid attention to which way was civilization. We knew we were somewhere near Winterhold, and we'd all agreed it was to the right, because we'd forgotten which directions were north and south, so I'd merely turned right at the water and started walking. I didn't know exactly what I planned to do, I was penniless, after putting all the iron we had in the boat, so I wouldn't be able to pay the mages, I could merely hope that they would be kind enough to take me under their wing and teach me their ways, and when I was strong enough, I'd be on my way. I also dreamed of finding a warm, grassy, beautiful place to live. I'd heard tales of places like Whiterun, or the beautiful Riften, but I barely remembered my days of youth back in the grassier lands. We'd been in the mine for quite a lengthy time, and after spending years surrounded by cold winds and ice and rock, you forgot what it was like to have the sun shining down on your skin, to not have goosebumps, for your hair to be soft and not hard. But I knew I couldn't go and settle down and live in peace, I knew that I would be a bastardly little milk-drinker if I did that. No, I would avenge my fallen comrades. I knew what the thing was that killed my comrades. There were songs of it, poems, legends. I'd always thought it was a myth, but after I'd had time to think of it, I knew what it was that he had shouted at me that sent me flying. It was a Thu'um, and the man was the Dragonborn. The Dragonborn was the finest dragon slayer in all the lands, a man more powerful than any other, the best warrior of them all, a man who could learn a Thu'um in a second from actually absorbing a dragon's soul. The very soul of it. But the Dragonborn wasn't immortal. At least, I don't think he's immortal. None of the legends I've heard have said that the Dragonborn is immortal. But either way, if the Dragonborn is immortal, it's just fine. As long as I get to battle him and go to Sovngarde to dine in the Hall of Valor with my comrades.

I look up from the snow. That must be it. Before me, hundreds of feet up in the air, upon a cliff, lies a gigantic castle. It's beautiful, completely made of stone, windows here and there on the sides. It connects to the town of Winterhold through a large, lengthy bridge, also made of stone, and coming from the castle I see a gigantic ray of blue light. It's just like the fairy tales.

I shiver again, rub my arms, then look back down again, and start my way up to the level on which the town lies.

-BREAK-

A huge wave of satisfaction flows through me that almost makes me forget about my brothers for a moment, knowing I finally reached the town. I breath out deeply, rubbing my cheeks and my arms again for warmth as I cross through an alley and into the main street. I glance at the college. The bridge seems gigantic from here, and it makes me think of the glorious bone bridge into the Hall of Valor in Sovngarde. I can imagine my brethren crossing the bridge, their filthy tunics and rags gone, now wearing glorious, shining knight's armor, gleaming swords at their sides, their faces cleaned, their beards trimmed, laughing together. I look down at my own tunic and rags and try to imagine myself in knight's armor with a sword. I can't.

I shake my head silently and look around the town. It's very small, not the kind of town you'd expect to be famous, much less famous for harboring a college of wizards. I can only see a few guards patrolling, walking up and down the street, not nearly enough to hold off an attack. All of the houses are made of wood, just small cottages, and there is one large cottage which I imagine belongs to the jarl. A road leads straight through the town, turning into the bridge and leading straight into the college. The town itself is no beautiful thing, but I'd give all the money in the world to merely reside here and forget all about mining and looking for iron or gold. One of the bigger cottages, still smaller than the jarl's house, has a sign hanging out front that shows that it's a tavern. I sigh and head up the rickety wooden steps which creak under my feet and onto the porch, the snowflakes finally ceasing their falling on me, then push open the door and head inside.

As soon as I step inside, I'm immediately glad I did, a feeling of pleasure hitting me as the warmth of the fire rubs against my body and I can hear talking, and even a bard singing. It's the first time since I was a youth that I've heard a bard sing, that I've heard anyone sing, and the sound of people talking is refreshing after traveling so long in complete silence, the only sound being the wind and my boots crunching against the snow. I shake myself off like a dog and pound my feet against the floor a few times to knock the snow off. The inn looks pretty quiet, there are a few rooms and some regulars hanging about, drinking mead. The bartender is a strong, bored looking Nord, and most of the place seems to mainly house Nords. It occurs to me most of my life I've lived with my kinsman, with fellow brother Nords. I never really minded, but I did wonder what the Khajit's and Argonians were like, how the Argonians could breathe under the sea and how the Khajit were silent as, well, a cat.

The bartender looks up at me for a moment, but then see's I'm merely a miner, that I have no riches to give him and am barely even a customer, and goes back to cleaning his bar, rubbing his rag all over it and collecting the dirt. I let out a deep breath and walk over to him, still enjoying the radiating heat of the fire, and set my hands down against the bar. He looks up at me.

"I'd like a job," I say. My voice sounds so weird coming out of my body, I haven't heard it in quite a while, especially so loosely like this.

The bartender looks at me for a moment.

"What's your name, miner?" he asks me dully.

"Gunding," I reply.

"How much money do you have?" he asks.

"None," I say.

He's silent for a moment, then says, "Why do you want a job? Shouldn't you be in the mines, in search of gold and fortune?"

I'm silent for a moment, then say, "My kinsman's blood splatters the walls of that mine."

He nods, unfazed, cleaning the bar as he talks to me.

"If you're not going to give me a job, can you at least tell me if the College of Winterhold will take me?" I say.

He chuckles, then says, "You're on a quest for revenge. You think you can become a powerful, wonderful mage and then charge in and take down the man who killed your brethren in an epic battle, honoring your fallen comrades-" He looks up at me "-well, I'll tell you, being a mage isn't free. They sell those tomes, those spells, you can buy them and learn them quick if you're smart, but they cost money. You see that man sitting at that table against the wall, drinking the mead? He's an ex-mage, well, at least, he's an ex-member of the College of Winterhold. He's kind. He might give you a spell tome, if you ask nicely and tell him your story. He's the type that likes to hear stories."

I look at the man he mentioned, then turn back and nod, say, "Thanks," and walk over to the table the mage sits at.

His robes are a dark blue, and to me, they're truly beautiful, but I wager they're just common robes to most people, but after living in a mine for years after years, a lot of things will seem beautiful to you. I swing my legs over the seat and sit down next to him, turning and facing him. He looks up at me from his mead.

"The bartender there, he told me to talk to you," I say.

The mage looks at the bartender, who doesn't look back, then back at me.

"Why?" he asks.

I hesitate, then say, "I need a spell tome."

He chuckles. "A lot of people say that. I used to be a mage, I'm not anymore, I'm just a man. Why would you need magic anyway, miner? Telekinesis, to pull gold from somewhere inside the mine? Fire, to smelt it into beautiful weapons? What?" he asks.

I hesitate again, wondering how much exactly should I tell this person. Sitting here in an inn and complaining to a mage about my sorrows doesn't seem exactly like avenging my brethren, but I figure it's the only way to, and start to explain.

"I've lived in a mine for quite a few years. I've lost count over time, but I followed my friends to the mine, I wanted to just live in peace, but Thorgar was who you expect most miners to be, a man in search of gold, sure he'll find some sooner or later and become rich, he wanted to be something more. Me and Badnir, we were hopeful, but we mainly came to stay with Thorgar and Angvid, my other friend, a bit of a skeptic. We lived in peace in that mine, picking away at rocks, none of us minded, and that's not what I'm here to whine to you about, I'd be glad if I never had to go near a cave again. We were mining one day when they were all killed, Thorgar, Angvid, and Badnir. I was left alive because I was thought dead, and I stayed a little while to give them a warrior's sendoff, in a flaming boat, out to sea, and then I came here, to Winterhold. I don't seek peace or a place to settle down, I don't seek gold or riches, I don't even seek to become a mage, I just seek to become powerful enough that I can send the bastard to whatever hell he believes in and go to Sovngarde in the midst, or afterwards, either way. I ask nothing of you but a few spell tomes, then I'll be on my way. You don't even have to give me anything powerful enough to defeat the man, just something, and then I'll be on my way," I say.

He has remained silent through the entire speech, looking at me while I jabbered on and on, and now remains silent, still staring at me.

"Go to Sovngarde, eh?" he asks.

I wonder for a moment why he asks, then say, "Yes, why?"

He nods, then says, "Because if you're intent on not surviving this battle, I know that this man is more powerful than you are, and I'm not going to send a man to his death just because he's here to whine and moan about his problems, I'm not going to let you go on a suicide mission just because you have to deal with the loss of your comrades, grow up."

Without even thinking, my hand shoots up and I instantly lean into his face, clenching his collar, and growl out, "If you don't give me a spell tome right now, a real spell tome, I'll kill you here and now, and don't say I'll be slaughtered by the rest of the people in this inn, I don't care, I'll still go to Sovngarde because I'll die a warrior, and that's all I need, so either you give me a spell tome, or I end this… _quest_-" I spit out the word "-right here."

He merely looks at me for a moment, then says, "Fine. I can't stop you, so what's the point? Let go of me and follow me, then."

I let go of his collar and lean back. He stands up, then gets off the bench and starts heading towards his room. I stand up and follow him. When I step into his room, he's standing in front of a book shelf, lightly tapping his chin, looking across and down the filled shelves.

"Ah! Here's one," he says, and pulls out a book on a higher shelf, then flips through it. "Yup, this is the one," he continues, turning around, holding it out.

I look at him suspiciously for a moment, not stepping forward.

He scoffs.

"What, do you think it's poisoned? Go ahead and read it right and here and now, I'll even take you outside and we can test it out. There's no point in giving you a fake spell tome, boy, because I know you're type and I know you'll come back here, with a stronger weapon than that little plaything at your side," he says.

I hesitate for a moment more, then step forward and take the book from his hands.

"It's for pyromancers. Pyromancy is much easier and can do more damage than cryomancy, plus us Nords are a little bit more immune to the cold than most, so if you're going to kill your kinsman, roasting him will be easier," he says as I sit down in a chair and open the book.

As soon as I see the strange, large, black text inside, I feel something pass into me, something pleasant, and something feels different all of a sudden. It's not a bad thing, it's like when you get your hair cut and you can feel the breeze on your neck, it's different, but you don't mind it.

"Come on, let's go," he says, nodding towards the exit.

I nod, standing up and setting the book down and following him. We head outside, back into the cold, and then go around the inn, through an alley, into the back. The winds are stronger now, and they push at our hair and clothes as we stand outside, causing the mage to hold his cloak shut.

"Come on, try it out! Aim at some piece of rock, a snow storm's coming and I want to get inside!" he shouts over the wind.

"How?!" I shout back.

"Clench your hand shut tightly, then open it as hard and wide as you can," he shouts.

I do as he says, my uncut finger-nails digging into my dirty palms, then throw my hands open. All of a sudden, instead of just seeing dirty fingers and palms, in each hand is a floating orb of flames. I stare in astonishment, my mouth hanging open a bit, having a hard time believing it.

"No time to gape, boy! Shoot at something! Not me, mind you, or a house!" he shouts.

I nod, and push my hands out at a certain piece of ground, putting my hands together and forcing the flames out of me. It's like shoving out a big, deep breath, you can just do it, it's hard to describe how you do it.

The flames combine together to form an even bigger ball of flame. It flies steady, going exactly where I meant it to go. When it hits ground, it explodes in a massive explosion, causing me to cover my eyes, the sheer heat hitting me hard.

The mage claps a few times.

"Come on, let's go inside, I have something to tell you!" he shouts.

I nod again, and we head inside, and back to his room.

"Come, sit down," he says, and we both sit down at the small table in his room, opposite each other.

"Now, listen. That spell I just gave you is powerful. Most mages start out with simple, tiny things, but I gave you this one because I hope that you can take this man without getting too close. You saw how large the explosion was, didn't you? You can shoot that into a room and the fire will spread to the entire room, the explosion radius will catch everyone inside there. A few direct, strong hits with that spell can take a man down easily. But this man you talk of seems powerful, and I suggest not taking him on with just this spell. I'll give you some healing potions before you leave, and I will, in fact, give you the Telekinesis spell tome," he says.

"Why?" I ask.

"Trust me, son, the ability to bring far away things closer to you can come in great handy during a battle. You can sleep here for the night, and when you leave I'll give you some coins to set you on your way. Now, come, let's listen to the bard sing and have some mead, eh?" he says, standing up from his chair.

"If you insist," I say, standing up.

He laughs, and pats me on the shoulder.

"I like you, boy. Now come on, let's go."


	4. Chapter 4

The carriage passes over yet another large bump, sending me a few inches into the air off of my feet then it crashes back down as I do. Still, no matter how bumpy the roads, it's nice to ride in a carriage instead of having to walk everywhere, to be able to rest my feet after walking all the way from the mine to Winterhold. I sigh, leaning back on the bench in the back of the carriage, resting my head against the wood, closing my eyes for a moment. I spent the night with the mage, who gave me the telekinesis spell tome as promised, and the coins, as he said, but also gave me an old cloak he had, similar to his just not quite as silky, a bit older and dustier, but still, it was warm, being thicker than the mage's, and useful for rainy days or windy, what with having a hood.

"You still awake back there, traveler?" I can hear the driver ask.

I nod, and say, "Yes. You can talk, I'm listening, I'd just like to close my eyes for a bit."

"Had a lengthy bit of journey, eh?" he says.

"Ha. Yes, you could say that," I reply.

"What I wanted to ask you was why you're leaving the college. They give you a room there, or so I've heard, and it looks splendid. Plus, you get to learn all these wondrous things," he says.

"I'm not from the college. Just a man with a bit of luck from a friend who gave him some things and taught him some things. Well, I wouldn't say I'm exactly lucky, but still, I thank the Eight Divines for letting me run into the man," I explain.

"Ah. So, why to Windhelm? I mean, I understand if it's just because you're low on money and just need to get to get to the closest city," he replies.

"Eh, partly that, but mostly there's a man I need to see there," I say.

"Pardon me if I'm intruding on private business, but may I ask who's the man?" he asks.

"Give you a hint. He comes, he comes," I say.

"Ah. So you want to get his autograph, want to meet the legendary Dragonborn, see the man the legends speak of, eh?" the driver says.

I'm silent for a moment, then say, "He's not the man the legends speak of, that's for sure. The legends say he's a hero. Not so much."

"Have a grudge with him, eh?" he replies.

"You could say that," I say again.

"Mind telling me what he's like?" the driver asks.

I'm silent again for a moment, thinking, then say, "Well, the legends of his voice, the Thu'um, how powerful it is? Very true, I experienced it myself. He's about medium-height, not too handsome a fellow, and bulky, with a completely blank face. When I first saw him, I thought he was rich or a bandit, because of his armor. It was magnificent, beautiful. And his sword? Amazing, crafted by the gods for sure. But he definitely wasn't what you expected him to look like, with the massive muscles and the rippling, gold hair, gold bands going up and down his arms. No, he just looked like someone gave a normal man amazing gear. The same gear he used to kill my kin. He used his, his shout or whatever, Thu'um, on me. It felt like being hit by a gigantic fist of wind, right in the stomach. It threw me into the air and shoved me back. I was an idiot, I tried to fight him with a dagger. And no, I don't know why he killed my kin, we'd never seen the man before."

The driver is silent, then says, "Certainly is different than the legends I've heard, but I don't doubt you in the slightest friend. I suppose that means you heard something about him being in Windhelm?"

"Yes. He's thane there and supposedly solved some murder mystery. Which, of course, makes everyone think he's even more of a hero. He's so wonderful and brave and glorious that he even lives in the killer's house now, supposedly," I reply.

"And you hope to go there and kill the Dragonborn? I'd say 'easier said than done', but no, moreso it's probably the same amount either way. Besides, what about this wonderful armor and sword of his? I doubt you'll stand much of a chance against him with that cloak you have," the driver says.

"Eh. That's not what matters, it's just a bonus. I just hope to go to Sovngarde and dine alongside my brethren in the Hall of Valor," I say.

"I know that feeling, kinsman, but if I were you I'd think the best thing to do would be to settle down in some town, find a pretty lass, and raise a family and children to keep your legacy going, and the fact that you even survived one of the Dragonborn's attacks is enough," he says.

I'm silent yet again for a moment, then say, "It's not that way. The bastard lopped off my friend's head, from behind, _from behind_. Big hero, too cowardly to fight him face-to-face. It's a terrible feeling, to wake up, covered in broken wood, and to stand up and see the blood of your brothers, already dried into the ground, each lying dead on the ice. One of them was my best friend, my closest companion. Waking up and seeing that, and then having to give them a warrior's send-off… It'd be a bastardly thing to just settle down after all that."

"I don't blame you. Would you mind doing something for me, kinsman?" he asks.

"Not at all, what is it?" I reply.

"Tell me if you make it. I'll be at Winterhold, of course, where I usually am, so just come and see me if you slay the Dragonborn and live," he says.

"Sure. Now, I might sleep a bit, hope you don't mind," I say.

"Perfectly fine. Pray the Daedric prince Vaermina doesn't strike you," he replies.

"Thanks," I say, and shift my position a bit in the bench, then relax.

-BREAK-

"Wake up, lad, we're here."

My eyes open fully, immediately taking in everything. When you live in a mine, you eventually get used to waking up and getting to work right away, being alert and awake as soon as you wake up, so I didn't need any brew to keep me awake in my mornings. I let out a deep breath, dusting myself off and standing up. I take out a few coins and hand them to the driver.

"Have a good battle, lad. Before I go, tell me, what god do you worship?" he asks.

"Whatever god will get me into Sovngarde, but I'd wager Sanguine favors me most," I answer.

He laughs, and says, "Good answer, lad, and I wish you good luck."

"Thank you, same to you," I say, and stick out my hand.

He shakes it, and I nod, then jump off the carriage.

I start walking down the cobblestone ground, walking onto the bridge. It's massive, much wider and even more impressive than the bridge to the College of Winterhold. There are multiple guard posts across the bridge, made out of stone and built into it. I wonder, if I'm going to survive the fight, how will I escape the town with all these guards? I don't want to spend the rest of my days rotting away in prison, there's no chance of dying in battle, then, which means no chance of going to Sovngarde. I decide that if I have to, I'll try and make a last stand, holding off as many guards as I can, or just try and run. I never became too agile, though, what with living in the mine, so I wouldn't have much of a chance of dodging arrows and scaling walls. It doesn't matter, though.

Eventually, I reach the end of the bridge. The town is a gigantic fortress of stone, the doors that are its entrance massive, and beautiful. My arms strain to push them open, but I eventually manage to slip through a small crack I made. It makes me wonder how other people get in or out.

The town inside is just as made of stone, and it's all beautiful, too. The town is far, far bigger than Winterhold, and much louder. You could hear the clanging of a hammer against iron from the blacksmith's shop, you could hear the buzz of people talking, you could hear the sound of heavy footsteps, you could smell the delicious smell of sizzling meat from the butcher's shop. I would love to settle down here, to live in one of these beautiful houses and go to the butcher's shop and buy food and sit down at a table with a family of my own and eat it. Seeing Winterhold and this, seeing all these beautiful places, I truly feel like a moleman who broke the ground and came to the surface, a vampire who's been asleep millions of years and is just now seeing all the new things of the modern world. It's astounding, and confusing, and terrifying all at the same time. It's the kind of feeling that's impossible to describe unless you've lived away from civilization for so lengthy a time as I have.

I try to shake off my feelings and start to make way towards the sound of the metal clanging. When I reach it, I see there isn't just one blacksmith there, but several, all working on something or other, multiple tools lying around, along with a grindstone, and a steel table to fix your armor on. I check my pockets again. I've got a few gold pouches left from what the mage gave me, enough to buy some decent swords, maybe, and possibly some armor. I make way for the nearest Nord blacksmith, as I'm most comfortable around fellow Nords.

"Hey, smith," I call.

He looks up, sitting on the grindstone, holding an iron sword against the rock. He quits pedaling, stopping the rock from turning.

"What is it?" he asks.

"I'd like a sword and some armor," I say.

He stares at me for a few more seconds.

"Well?" he asks.

"What?" I reply.

"What kind of armor do you want, fool?" he sighs out.

"Well, I don't know, what have you got that's strong and moderately cheap?" I ask.

"I get that question quite a lot," he replies, and stands up from the grindstone.

He motions for me to follow him, which I do, and walks over to a rack, set up against the wall, on which hang multiple chestplates, small little wooden sticks sticking out above them, little pieces of paper attached that give a price. On the far right side I see a steel chestplate. It's beautiful, gleaming in the light of the fire that stands in the middle of the circle of blacksmith work. It looks the most knightly, the most familiar from the illustrations in the stories I was shown as a child, so I figure it's the best. I look at the price. Expensive, but if I find a cheap one I might still be able to get a sword.

"That one," I say, and point at the steel-plate armor.

"Good choice," he says, and pulls it off the rack, setting it down on a nearby table, then turns around and asks, "Now, what sword do you want?"

"Strong, simple one," I reply.

He nods, and heads over to another rack, and pulls off a sword, then comes back and sets it down next to the armor.

"Like this?" he asks.

I pick it up, and lightly turn it around and heft it a bit. It's lightweight, easy to swing, good balance.

"Yeah," I reply.

I pull out the few remaining gold pouches and give him the coins the armor and the sword cost, then stick the remaining money back in my pockets.

"You have any idea where I can change into this?" I ask, nodding towards the armor.

"Alley," he replies dully.

"Um… Okay, yeah," I say, picking up the armor, then think and say, "Wait, what about a sheath?"

"What kind do you want?" he asks.

I sigh, getting tired of the whole business.

"Cheap leather one," I say.

He nods and goes to yet another rack, pulling off a leather sheath, as I described, and hands it to me. I hand him yet even more money, then stick the remaining money back in my pocket and wrap the sheath's tail around my belt, tightly so the sheath will stay, then sheathe the sword.

"Thanks," I say.

The blacksmith nods and heads back to the grindstone.

I turn, adjusting the position of the steel armor under my arm a bit to be more comfortable, then head out, in search of an alley.


End file.
